


Perspective

by Llwyden ferch Gyfrinach (Llwyden)



Category: The Mummy Series
Genre: Arabic Character, Backstory, Chromatic Yuletide, Desert, Egypt, Family, Gen, early 20th century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llwyden/pseuds/Llwyden%20ferch%20Gyfrinach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into what it's like growing up Medjai.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perspective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Febricant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Febricant/gifts).



> Many thanks to my betas!

Ardeth knows, before he is old enough to wander far from camp, that there are things he must not speak of to the city people. He does not know why, but he knows it is so. His father puts on his fiercest expression and ensures their guns are loaded and tucked away in easy reach; his mother changes her trousers for skirts and hides her tattoos behind her veils and winks as if it is a game, but Ardeth understands the message: _do not trust them. Do not show yourself._ Their children ask where he is from, what his family's business is, and he does not answer.

 

He is five when he first meets his cousin. There is something going on, too big for Ardeth to be told of, and the far tribes have sent representatives to his father to discuss it. Ardeth blinks in astonishment when the man introduces himself as Terence. He dresses like a city man, his accent is odd, and his face and hands are bare of markings. Ardeth looks to his parents doubtfully, and his father laughs.

"When your uncle was a young man, our father sent him to watch an outsider woman we thought might have useful knowledge. He thought he would watch her by marrying her."

"It worked," Terence answers with a smile and a shrug. "But she never quite got used to all the traveling. So mother raised me mostly in Cairo."

Ardeth's mother ruffles his hair. "Terence is true Medjai, never doubt it. But his mother made a good argument that they could both better keep an eye on the outsiders if they looked like them." Ardeth frowns, but he accepts it with a nod and files it away: _they do not trust us. Stay hidden._

His father pats him on the back. "You can question him later, if you like." He nods at Terence. "Come; bring me the news from your father."

Later, Ardeth sits by his cousin at supper and listens to him tell stories of the cities, of their odd vehicles and strange customs. He teaches Ardeth a few words of English and of French. He talks of museums and libraries, and of jails and restaurants.

"Cities are stranger places than I realized," Ardeth declares, eyeing Terence askance. "How can you live there?"

Terence shrugs. "They're not all bad. There's a lot to be learned there. You just have to be careful. Not like out here; city careful is a different kind of careful. The ground is solid, but not all the people are. You must be on your guard."

Ardeth makes sure to remember that.

 

Ardeth is eight when he learns the reason for their secrecy. They camp well away from the city as usual, but this time instead of heading for the market, Ardeth's mother wraps them both in robes and after nightfall takes him far into the streets. Ardeth has never been so deep into a city this big, where the smells of gas and sweat block out the desert scents he's accustomed to and the lights along the streets make the stars seem dimmer.

Terence greets them at a door, ushering them in and out of sight before he offers them both hugs and smiles. He grins at Ardeth and shakes his head fondly. "Hard to believe you're getting so big! Come." He holds out his hand, and Ardeth takes it. "Tonight I get to introduce you to the love of my life — knowledge."

Ardeth's mother snorts as they start down the dark hallway. "Sometimes I think you need a wife."

Terence pouts. "You wouldn't want to make the books jealous, would you?"

She rolls her eyes. "We are alone?"

"The entire evening." He nods back. "The curator thinks I'm staying late translating a new book. He'll stay as far away as possible, to avoid having to help."

Terence leads them to a small room lined with books. A stove in one corner takes the chill from the place, and carefully shielded lanterns glint off pottery and weapons and what look like pieces of a wall. The scent of warm clay, cloth, and leather is reassuring, and Ardeth loosens his outer robe as he moves around, inspecting things.

"Coffee, aunt?" Terence offers, and Ardeth hears his mother hum agreement. "Cousin?"

"Please." Terence waves him toward a chair at the small table, and Ardeth moves to sit. His arm bumps the hard wood and he hides a wince as it hits his new tattoo, breathing through the discomfort. He catches a small smile of pride from his mother and straightens, basking in it.

"You are a little further along the road to becoming a warrior," Terence says, nodding and smiling. "You plan on leading the tribes after your father?"

"If the tribes decide that is best." Ardeth frowns. He would be honored to lead them, but he is not a warrior yet! And his father is still a strong and good leader.

"Allah willing, that will be some time in the future," his mother speaks up, quirking a knowing look at him.

"Insha'Allah." Terence nods briefly, and Ardeth echoes him. "I don't mean to borrow trouble, cousin." He pats Ardeth's shoulder as he hands him his coffee. "But, if that is your wish, you have many things to learn first. Weapons and fighting, you have warriors to teach you that. Desertcraft and survival and the ways of the world, for that you have your parents and your tribe. But the Medjai have a purpose and a history, and for that, tonight you have me."

Terence pulls a book onto the table, and Ardeth can tell it is different from the others — its binding is heavy, the pages thick and uneven; when Terence opens it, Ardeth can see it's hand-written. Terence smoothes a hand over the first page with an expression of reverence, then leans down a little to catch Ardeth's eye directly.

"The Medjai's history is long. We strive to keep a record of all that we learn; we copy it down and we keep it safe and secret. It has been written in stone, and on papyrus and skins and paper." He pats the book. "And all of it, no matter where else, is kept in one place." He pauses and smiles at Ardeth.

"You want me to ask where." Ardeth folds his arms and looks back.

Terence laughs and cuffs him gently on the side of the head. "Yes, well, since you will not."

"I didn't say I wouldn't." Ardeth grins back. "Where, cousin?"

Terence shakes his head and chuckles. "Here." Leaning forward, he pokes Ardeth's forehead. "With the rest of your impertinent thoughts, and those of every other Medjai."

"Are you saying all Medjai are impertinent, then?" Ardeth's grin widens.

"Yes," his mother answers. "And good luck to anyone leading them." Her expression grows serious. "But we all take the same oaths. And they all begin here." She places her hand on the book. "Oaths and a task so serious that Allah sent the Prophet himself to speak to our ancestors, that they should learn the way to give him honor without failing in their duty."

Ardeth sits in awe of that, and his mother's eyes bore into him in that way they do when she insists he obey unquestioningly. _Do this, or we will not live._ "The people of the cities grow more numerous and more relentless. The Medjai must learn and adapt. You must learn the outsiders' ways and not forget your own. We will remain here for many weeks. You will commit to memory all that the Medjai before us have learned. You will observe the city people and begin to learn their ways." She straightens. "When we leave here, you will have a choice — you may choose the path of Horus, and learn to fight and guard, or you may choose the path of Thoth, to move unseen among the cities and gather news and knowledge. Our last defense, or our first."

His mother's eyes are fierce and Terence's are stern, and there is a test here, he can sense it. Not to choose, not yet. He runs their words through his mind as they wait, and then he finds it. "What is our duty? What do we guard?"

His mother nods proudly, and Terence turns the page and slides the book closer to him.

He listens that night, and reads, and questions. When his mother steers him from the building, he is surprised to find the sky lightening already, and yawns as tiredness hits him all at once. His mother shakes her head and Terence chuckles.

"Maybe another scholar after all." He hugs Ardeth briefly and speaks to his mother. "You are welcome to my home for the day."

"We would be honored." She bows slightly to him. "Thank you, kinsman."

Terence's home is one level of a building, the walls thick and close. There is a balcony with curtains that let in the morning breeze, though, and Ardeth stands just inside, breathing in the desert scents as the wind carries them to him.

The call to prayer sounds before they set their things down, and Terence shifts chairs aside to leave them room. Ardeth's mother brings a bag from her pack and hands it to Terence with a bow and a smile, and he looks in it and laughs.

"Bringing sand to the desert?"

"There's no telling how clean the sand is in this place. And I am not using _water_ for ablutions!" She shakes her head emphatically. "City people."

As promised, they stay for almost two months. During the days, Ardeth sleeps, then goes with his mother through the markets and mosques and streets of Cairo, listening to her murmured explanations. Toward the end of the day, they head to the museum, and Terence lets them in. They sit by the stove or walk through the halls, and the stories he learns are of ancient evils and protective powers and brave men and women who guard the world as they have since before the last two Prophets.

When he lies down on the floor in Terence's room, his head spins and he concentrates on breathing beneath the terrible weight of the responsibility. When he walks through the city, he sees the people going about their business and wonders how they keep from floating away without its anchor. It seems irredeemably alien, not to know or care about these things, though even he did not know them weeks ago.

He sees a pair of boys in the marketplace when his mother is a few stalls over buying them food. They look to be about his age, and he wonders if these are the same who years ago made a game of trying to get him to speak of his people. Those days seem long ago to him, and these boys seem like...well, like children. They brandish sticks like swords and guns, running and yelling with glee, and Ardeth watches them.

Before long, they come over to him, wary but friendly, and ask him to play. But Ardeth knows how to load and care for and shoot his father's rifle, and he's been working with training blades to strengthen his arms. He frowns, unsure if it would be a fair competition, and one of the boys scowls back and nudges his friend. "Ignore the little animal; he probably can't talk. I bet his mother was a camel!"

The boy is on his back in the dirt before his friend can reply; the boy still standing looks from him to Ardeth with wide eyes. Ardeth frowns at them both; at home, if one of the others had provoked him, they would never have stopped fighting after the first punch. Then again, none of them would have insulted him in such a way.

The shopkeeper steps out from behind his wares, yelling at them. No, Ardeth realizes, at him. "Desert rat, you leave those boys alone! I will fetch my whip!"

Ardeth frowns at the man, indignant. He opens his mouth to answer, but his mother's hand clasps his shoulder strongly, and he looks up at her and quiets.

"My apologies, sir. My boy will not bother you." She tugs Ardeth away, and he follows, astonished at his mother's voice, meek as he has never heard it before. But she shakes his head, and he saves his questions for later.

When they are back inside Terence's house, though, he can resist no longer. "I didn't start that fight, Mother! You know I wouldn't."

"I know." She nods and sits him down, her expression serious. "But to the city people, that would not have mattered." She gives him a moment to think on that, then continues. "And you should not have fought at all."

"He insulted you!" Ardeth frowns.

His mother shakes her head. "Let them say what they like. We have our honor, and they cannot touch it. You could have killed them easily." She reaches out and takes his hands, looks straight into his eyes. "Never hesitate to kill if you must, Ardeth, but neither take nor harm a life if you can do otherwise." Her eyes glint with wicked humor. "And if it helps, you can remember — they live only because you let them."

"I would not have killed them!" Ardeth has never yet killed a man, and does not look forward to the day he may have to.

"They were only boys. You are a young warrior." She waves her hand in dismissal. "They are softer in some ways, city folk. Do not underestimate them!" she cautions. "They have their own strengths, some of them. But they will never have your training or your knowledge. And if they underestimate you for that, so much the better."

It's more information he files away — _city people are not warriors, are not strong. And many are not worth the trouble._

Some of them, of course, are better — there is an odd British man he sees at the museum once, who winks at him and calls the curator away before he spies Ardeth. There is a widow living below Terence who smiles at Ardeth and calls him charming and speaks with respect to his mother. And Terence's mother, he remembers, is also a city woman.

He thinks about this, and about the Medjai's duty, and wonders, but can come up with no answer on his own.

"Cousin?" he asks, and Terence looks up from the symbols he's breaking down to explain to him. Ardeth looks at them and frowns, getting his thoughts together. "If it is so important that Imhotep be prevented from rising, and that Hamunaptra and the other places be protected, why are there only the Medjai? Surely if we told more people of the danger, made them aware of it, they could better prepare themselves? If they learned what we know, it would make them stronger."

Terence smiles, a bit ruefully. "It would. Unfortunately, not all of them would use that strength for what is right. There are those even now who believe Imhotep wronged, and would hasten his return. They are a tale for another day. Beyond that, there are those who would seek the riches or the knowledge of old without regard to the consequences. More and more these days, those who would seek it without belief in the consequences. And we have no proof we can offer unless we should fail in our duty." He sighs. "Not everybody has our faith."

He shakes off the black mood and smiles at Ardeth again. "But, we are not alone! We have each other, and there are some who came from the West and remained. Let me tell you of them; it will be a good reminder of both the promise and danger of word getting out."

By the time they leave Cairo, Ardeth's head is spinning with languages and prophecies and cautions and more questions than he came with. He carries books in his saddle-bags — not Terence's well-protected Medjai text, but histories and writings of the outside world, to continue his studies. "And write me if you have questions," Terence urges, then shrugs. "If it's important, of course, you can ask an elder, but I should like to hear from you."

Ardeth grins and grasps his hand. "I will, Cousin. Thank you!" He bows, still smiling. "Barakallah."

"Assalamu alaikum." Terence clasps his shoulder and bows to his mother. "I have no doubt I will see you again."

 

Ardeth is twelve when he makes his decision. He has spent the last few years gaining the skills of a warrior and the knowledge of a scholar. The tattoos on his arms have settled in; he wears them proudly in their camp on the way to the gathering of tribes.

"My little peacock," his father teases him, "so proud." He ruffles his hair fondly to take the sting from it. "You still have a lot to learn, no matter what you choose, my son. In fact, shall I tell you something?" He looks around as if sharing a secret, but Ardeth knows the amused glint in his eyes for the joke it is, and grins, leaning forward himself.

"What is it?"

"No matter how old you get," his father says solemnly, "you will never stop learning."

Ardeth laughs. "That's not a secret!"

His father snorts and cuffs him lightly. "In that case, I wish you would tell Shaykh Ameen; he believes he knows everything."

"Stop teaching the boy your bad habits, Nijad!" Ardeth's mother scolds.

"You said the Medjai are all impertinent, Mother." Ardeth grins. "Shouldn't I try to be the best at everything?"

His mother mutters under her breath, and his father laughs.

Later that evening, he sits by his father and oils his family's leather as his father patches the worn spots in their robes. His father peers over at him and nods his approval. "You seem settled; you've made your decision, then?"

"Yes." Ardeth would like to tell him, but tradition dictates he not say until the ceremony.

His father nods. "You should know, no matter your choice, I will be proud of you. Your sword by my side would be welcome, and your wisdom in my ear as well."

"Don't worry," his mother says. She sets their guns down on a cloth and drops to form a circle with them. "I'm sure he'll never be shy with his opinion no matter what, this one." Her voice is dry, but her eyes shine with pride. "Nor to defend us with gun and sword when necessary."

Ardeth searches for something he can say to the truth in that. _Wouldn't any of us?_ After a moment, he shrugs; that really is the only answer. "I am Medjai."

 

Ardeth is nineteen the first time he has a conversation with an outsider. He's stood by his father as they've done business, even done a bit himself, but business is business. And this — this bar where he's waiting for another tribe's news, and where the city men seem to be drinking more than coffee in amounts he's certain their wives and imam would not approve of — this is not business.

It makes them chatty, though, and seemingly willing to disregard his robes and markings and quiet in order to engage him in their discussions and (more or less) friendly arguments. He can't decide if this is a good thing or not.

"There, you see?" The man on his right gestures at him. "Even the desert savage agrees it's ugly."

Ardeth winces, but there's no condescension or aggression in the man's voice, and he's smiling. He can never be sure with outsiders, but he thinks the man is teasing him.

Ardeth shakes his head. "I just said I don't think it belongs in the desert. A building like that, surely it must be uncomfortable?"

The man across the table from him throws his head back in raucous laughter. "And that is why I say, let them have it! Maybe if the idiots get 'uncomfortable' enough, they'll bugger back to England!"

In the hours until the other tribe's messenger arrives, Ardeth learns many things: the British may be unwanted, but no-one buying the drinks is unwelcome; Issam the cloth merchant keeps his better wares out of sight to avoid the taxes; Ardeth acts old for his age compared to the city folk. And beyond that, the things they do not say: the belief that removing the British will solve their problems, the need to hold tight to their possessions and coin, the desire for distraction and amusement despite the headache it will give them tomorrow. And what he puts together from it all — _they are short-sighted._

 

Ardeth is twenty-five when his father is killed. They've tracked down reports of a lost scroll in Akhmim, and have just found it when the riot breaks out; the Medjai don't hear what this one is about, and they have little time to get out of its way. When the gunshots sound, he can barely hear them over the crowd in the streets; he only hears his father curse and sees him stumble.

Ardeth slings his father's arm over his shoulder and pulls him into the nearest shelter he can find, a shop filled with leather and the smell of camel. "Let me see." He finds where the blood from the wound soaks the black fabric of his father's robes and cuts them open further, grimacing. "It's still in there; too deep to get out here. We need to get you back to camp."

"No." His father hisses in pain as he shifts to one side to pull the scroll from his bags and pass it over to Ardeth. "I will make you slower, distract you. You bring this to camp, then you will come back for me."

Ardeth scowls. "And leave you here with all of this?" He waves to indicate the sounds of chaos still finding their way to them.

His father narrows his eyes at him. "Yes." It's the order of the Medjai chieftain, as well as the command of his father, and Ardeth bows his head. He gets a gentle cuff on the ear, and looks up. His father shakes his head, smiling faintly, though he's sweating from the pain. "If this were to remain in the hands of outsiders, who is to tell what damage it could do? Which is more important — our duty as Medjai, or ourselves?"

"Our duty," Ardeth answers. He knows it, he feels it to be true, and yet... "That doesn't mean I want you to bleed to death here."

His father chuckles. "Nor do I wish to. Go. The faster you get that to safety, the faster you can return for me. I will be fine."

He isn't.

Ardeth's mother grieves, and she hugs Ardeth and she leaves him with a bruised arm when he suggests he should have gone back faster.

"You did what you ought to and you did it well. Would your father have wanted otherwise?"

The tribal elders offer her the chieftaincy, but she shakes her head. "A warrior I may be; a leader I'm not. I ask that you trust my judgement in that, and when I say that there are others more suited to the task." She meets Ardeth's eyes calmly.

They listen.

 

Ardeth is twenty-nine when he nearly fails in his duty. The man is wounded and foreign and has no supplies; he should not last the several days' trek to the nearest village. It might be a kindness to kill him quickly, but it's best they avoid drawing attention when they can. Strangers have found Hamunaptra before over the centuries, though they rarely recognize it for what it is. His men shrug and agree, and they think little of it.

 

Ardeth is thirty-two when he discovers the extent of the damage done. Terence stands before him, pacing, his eyes burning and his hands chopping the air as he speaks of the map that these strangers have, that Ardeth allowed to remain free and that he himself has failed to destroy.

Ardeth grips his shoulder. "We will stop them. We must."

Terence sighs and shakes his head. "That girl is curiosity personified. With the scent of a mystery before her, even the threat of a curse won't hold her off."

"The threat of a curse may not, but the threat of imminent death is another story." Ardeth chuckles. "I'll take the largest and scariest warriors we have."

Terence grimaces. "May luck and Allah both be with you. You're likely to need them."

The Medjai attack the foreigners several times, discouraging, driving them off, warning them. It has worked many times in the past. It does not work now. Facing the American as he holds out a stick of dynamite, Ardeth comes to believe that it will not. The man faces him squarely as a warrior, with no intent of backing down, content to give his own life for that of his companions. Damn him.

He gives them one day, hoping to avoid any more death at the creature's resting place so soon after the battle a scant three years ago. They don't need that long to make it all go to hell. Ardeth curses the idiots under his breath as he leaves to track Imhotep down, and he vows to himself, _We will not fail. We will stop him. We must._

"You will," Terence tells him as the city folk crowd in on them. "The creature Imhotep may go back on his word, but the Medjai do not. Give me your sword."

Ardeth frowns at him, then shakes his head violently as he registers the intent in his cousin's eyes. "No."

Terence scowls back. "Is stopping this creature worth a _non-_ innocent life?" he retorts. "Someone must distract them so the rest may get away. Best it is me."

Ardeth looks around — Rick O'Connell is strong, but would not sacrifice himself and trust the Medjai to bring back Evelyn safely. The man Jonathan is perhaps superfluous, but not strong enough on his own to hold the villagers back. Ardeth or Terence will be needed for the Medjai's knowledge, but not both of them.

Terence shakes his head, smiling a little, before Ardeth can suggest an alternative. "You lead the Medjai. Let an old man die as he wishes, hm?"

Reluctantly, Ardeth unbuckles his sword and hands it to Terence. "Assalamu alaikum."

Terence grips his shoulder, still smiling. "Allahu akbar. Make our people proud."

He likes to think he does. They defeat the creature Imhotep and send him back to the Hell awaiting him. They rescue the girl. The map is lost, and the greedy man that guided the treasure-hunters here. Rick O'Connell and the Carnahans know the way to Hamunaptra, but they have helped him. Helped the Medjai and all the world. They have earned his blessing and his gratitude, and so he gives it. Watching them, he sees the knowledge of the true dangers in their eyes, and he doubts they will risk raising Imhotep again.

At least, he hopes not. Sometimes he still finds outsiders inscrutable.


End file.
